


Stay

by levitatethis



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Reality, Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-17
Updated: 2010-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-09 12:53:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the future Mohinder and Sylar are working together with Bennet. After a long time on the road they finally return to New York but with a far different perspective than when they left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay

**Author's Note:**

> This is for etoile_dunord who very politely asked me, "Would it kill you to write Mohinder and Sylar acknowledging how they feel about each other -- the angst on the backburner?"

The old familiar space of the apartment is neither completely welcoming nor coldly disjointed. It is as if the walls can sense the existence of something new brought back by the travelers who now stand within it after countless time away.

Breathing it in Mohinder had not realized how much he has missed this place. A home away from home away from…

He drops the travel bag from his shoulder with a thud to the bedroom floor followed by his messenger bag. With a relieved sigh he heads back to the kitchen where Sylar is filling up a glass with water from the tap. Narrowing the distance between them Mohinder watches Sylar drain the tall glass in a near breathless gulp.

“Thirsty?” Mohinder jokes, instantly aware of the lameness of the obvious statement.

Leaving the glass on the counter Sylar turns to look at him with a small, closed mouth smile and shifts his eyes to the floor.

“I guess Molly will come around to see you with Parkman?” Sylar asks glancing quickly at Mohinder, then towards the closed front door and finally the window by the desk, all the time avoiding Mohinder’s eyes.

Overcome with trepidation and feeling woefully unprepared for the urgent want clamoring to free itself, Sylar initiates a decent distance between them that allows him breathing room in which to collect his thoughts while maintaining the appearance of nothing being out of the ordinary.

Hands in his pocket Sylar pulls himself tall and acts out a careless stroll about the floor, stealing brief glances at Mohinder but careful not to let them settle. He feels an unfounded fear that Mohinder will see the motives bubbling below the surface and that everything from before will have been for nothing.

“Yes…Matt promised he and Molly would come by for a visit. Phone conversations only suffice for so long,” Mohinder replies as he steps closer to the kitchen table and grasps the top rung of one of the chairs.

He is temporarily put off by Sylar’s unexpectedly distant behaviour. They had moved beyond this awkward stiltedness during the past year and a bit while on tactical missions throughout North America and, mostly, Europe. Bennet’s partnering them up had met with little resistance, coming at a time when amidst their taunting insults were also intellectual curiosities about the “bigger picture” being addressed through debated conversations. Besides, no one else had wanted to work alone with Sylar and Mohinder’s lack of powers made him a less desirable temptation for betrayal.

Working one-on-one, so closely for so long, had allowed previously unseen details to work their way into place. There had always been gazes that extended indefinitely but where once those had been more generally conversational—daring, questioning, observational—those same looks had started to speak of something more personal—appreciative, enticing, content, desperate.

Proximity had transformed from an affable nearness—walking side-by-side—to a melding of two distinct spaces into one—whispering information into each other’s ears, leaning into the other.

Offensive touches of resistance—pushing away, throwing off balance, asserting individual power through contact—were flipped upside down—a friendly arm around the shoulders, fingers lingering a few seconds too long as notes or a cellphone exchanged hands, buttoning up the other’s jacket when the cold rendered fingers too rigid to function, waking up next to each other with arms brushed in touch when saving money with a single bed room made more sense than insisting on two beds.

Now Sylar stands a noticeable distance from Mohinder, refusing to make eye contact. Mohinder’s instinctive feeling of hurt, wondering if being back in a place so rooted in a tense past has exorcised any feelings he thought had begun to surface between them while abroad, is tempered upon taking a figurative step back.

“I guess I should go,” Sylar says, resting his eyes on Mohinder for the first time since arriving, while absentmindedly fingering random pieces of paper on the desk.

In his eyes Mohinder sees the tone that matches the one surrounding his words. It is not careless in apathy or an offhand attempt to fill the silence. This tone is questioning, it begs for acceptance in an upturned note and softened eyes.

Mohinder realizes he is seeing something he never thought possible. There is hidden bashfulness and an uncertainty in Sylar’s body language. The overconfident man from the trip, from way before then even, seems to have suddenly retreated and left a tentative, nearly dismissive man in self-protective mode rebuilding an invisible wall around him, a reminder that he is untouchable.

“Yes, Bennet said he’d debrief us tomorrow so we might as well make an early night of it,” Mohinder answers not meaning to sound so callous with disregard by focusing on work rather than the personal tension between them. He intends for his words to put Sylar at ease by removing the pressure that is entrenching itself in the space between them.

Instead, Sylar dejectedly looks over his right shoulder at the door and gets caught up in a lost thought. He does not want to leave but he has no idea how to broach the subject that excited him with expectation days before they arrived in New York only to reconfigure as something utterly unknowable beyond his control.

A quick look at Mohinder, who is watching him with a contemplative expression, and Sylar feels even more out of his element. He begins the weighted walk towards the door but partway there he remembers the car keys in his pocket and stops, turning around, and takes a few steps in Mohinder’s direction.

Pulling them out of his pocket he jingles them and says, “You should take these—to give to Bennet tomorrow. I’ll forget.”

Mohinder regards him carefully and closes off the rest of the distance. Never looking away and trying to keep Sylar’s eyes latched onto his, Mohinder comes to a stop about a foot from Sylar and reaches out his right hand to claim the keys being held out in Sylar’s left hand.

Hard-ridged metal in the middle of their hands offers the most miniscule of barriers, around which their skin completes the simplest of hopeful touches. Silently Mohinder wills Sylar to say what he wants. Behind tight lips Sylar’s plea for Mohinder to declare himself restlessly pauses.

Nothing.

Sylar turns to leave but is held in place by Mohinder’s unexpectedly firm grip pressing the keys painfully into their skin. As Sylar turns to look back at him Mohinder pulls slightly, bringing Sylar closer. Eyes clasped, there is an insistence between them that can no longer be denied.

“Mohinder?” Sylar hushes nearly indecipherable but for the lust now laden in his voice.

They both know it is now or—

Mohinder tilts his face upwards, eyes open, and gently touches his lips to Sylar’s. The surprising move widens Sylar’s eyes first then brings them to a semi-close as a warm rush of answered wants washes over him. Mohinder waits for Sylar’s eyes to shut in willing acceptance before allowing his own to follow suit, his lips pressed in a tiny smile.

No movement, it is the most basic intimation of heightened touch. The first contact unlocks the floodgate of a wondrous, and now ardent, frenzy of feelings that is rivaled in both men. The first kiss is chaste and thrilling and lasts until Mohinder breaks away for a quick breath with his heart pounding wildly in his chest.

The bold move is all the encouragement Sylar needs.

Feeling Mohinder pull back Sylar lets the movement guide him forward and he presses his own kiss to Mohinder’s welcoming lips. Their balance almost thrown off, with Mohinder leaning backwards and Sylar bent forward, they counter the off-kilter momentum with clutching hands that seize powerfully. Pressing fingers grab at clothes and push at skin.

Sylar’s hands feel Mohinder’s face, the smooth skin under the first graze of stubble, then move to rest on either side of his neck, urging Mohinder to him. Mohinder’s hands grab the front of Sylar’s shirt, twisting the material into scrunched balls within his fingers, before moving around to the small of his back.

Sylar’s mouth parts and Mohinder slides his tongue along his lips gently coaxing Sylar’s tongue forward; Mohinder is all spearmint fluoride while Sylar is lemon flavoured gum. The tips of their tongues touch and Mohinder presses his hands to Sylar’s back pushing their lower bodies together. The moan that rumbles from deep inside Sylar and passes into Mohinder is a culmination of built up, but never fully realized until now, mutual desires. The kiss deepens and Mohinder’s hands tug the bottom of Sylar’s shirt up, scraping his nails across the small of Sylar’s back and eliciting a sharp hiss.

The reaction encourages Mohinder to focus his touch on Sylar’s lower back, tracing his fingers in a circular motion on the heated skin, flattening his palm and imagining he can feel the flow of blood below.

Straightening up, Sylar brings Mohinder with him; neck still clasped in his hands. Tasting Mohinder, feeling Mohinder tasting him back, sets billions of nerves throughout Sylar’s body on fire. Unable to think clearly all he knows is that this moment cannot end; that he never wants to go back to whatever it was he had accepted as his life before. This is the only thing that has ever matched the absolute awe of a new ability clicking into place.

Regretfully, but necessary to truly appreciate this experience in detail, Sylar pulls back and gazes into Mohinder’s opening eyes. Matching panted breaths overheat the air between them and Sylar sees an expectant expression facing him.

“Mohinder, I…” Sylar gasps and Mohinder’s eyes search his, prompting him. Sylar softly touches their foreheads together and closes his eyes to focus in on Mohinder, finally, in his arms. “I could stay.”

A few seconds pass with no response and Sylar opens his eyes and pulls his head back. Mohinder is looking at him, wondering eyes, bright and slightly crinkled at the corners.

“Mohinder?” Sylar asks, feeling unsure.

“Yes,” Mohinder says softly.

Sylar stares back at him with uncertainty. Mohinder moves his left hand from Sylar’s back and cups it to the right side of Sylar’s face. Gazing in Sylar’s eyes he places a lingering kiss on his lips, then pulls back to give himself just enough room to speak.

“Yes,” Mohinder whispers into Sylar’s mouth.

This time when Sylar restarts the kiss it strikes deep right from the start in an intense slowness of tongues massaging with want and lips grazing provocatively. Sylar’s right hand moves up from Mohinder’s neck to his mess of dark floppy curls and he rests his hands in their entangling softness. A gentle tug of a curl springs a sharp intake of breath from Mohinder’s lips and he sucks hard, pulling at Sylar’s bottom lip in retaliation, feeling the smile that forms in response.

The muffled sound of a phone ringing breaks their rhythm. Confusion greets the intrusive sound and Mohinder turns his head towards the bedroom and listens closely. He can feel Sylar’s hot breath beating against his right ear and he closes his eyes while grabbing the front of Sylar’s shirt in a clenched fist to pull him closer, although that hardly seems possible.

Another muffled ring and Mohinder lets go of Sylar, attempting to break free of his embrace.

“Sylar,” Mohinder quietly says with a fleeting glance at penetrating eyes and steps back, briskly walking to the bedroom. Picking up his travel bag he throws it on the bed. Unzipping it he rummages through a mess of clothes for the cellphone.

Sylar grimly furrows his brow. He had packed the name _Gabriel _away years before in an act of moving forward without the unwanted baggage of a life he had endured with tolerable resignation for its relentless monotony. With Mohinder, in this evolution of what they had become painfully yet incredibly over the passing years, Sylar had felt the unexpected want to hear that old name pass through Mohinder’s lips. Gabriel—he—deserved it.

Despite never voicing the building need, Sylar had hoped Mohinder would reach that decision himself. Still the truth was something they could not ignore and Mohinder’s insistence on calling him by his anointed name is a purposeful reminder to them both that moving forward will not come at the expense of a sugarcoated past; being together does not mean forgetting. It is a compromise Sylar unfortunately understands all to well. It is an acceptance, however, that he is willing to make because the reward is far greater.

The ringing gets louder and Mohinder finally gets his hands around the phone. As he flips it over to look at the display screen he feels Sylar step up behind him and put his left hand on his hips with the right one, palm flat, against the back of his neck. Leaning forward Sylar places light kisses along the underside of Mohinder’s jaw, working his way up to his left earlobe which he teasingly pulls between lips, teeth and tongue, before resting his forehead against Mohinder’s shoulder and caressing his neck.

Mohinder can barely concentrate enough to read Bennet on the display and his finger hovers over the button that would answer the call. Sylar senses the pause in Mohinder’s body and moves his left arm so that it crosses the front of Mohinder’s stomach, holding him close. Shifting his body, Sylar looks over Mohinder’s right shoulder and extends his right hand along Mohinder’s until he can slide the phone out of his hand.

Sylar stares at the bright screen and Mohinder traces the fingers of his now empty hand along Sylar’s forearm.

“He can wait,” Sylar insists, referring to Bennet, and tosses the phone to the bed.

“I didn’t want to talk to him anyway,” Mohinder mutters as he loses himself in the heat emanating from Sylar’s chest being pressed against his back.

Sylar smiles into Mohinder’s neck and wraps his right arm across the top of Mohinder’s chest; he can feel himself straining uncomfortably against his pants. He is unsure of what to do besides not wanting to let go of Mohinder. Sensing the inexperienced hesitation, Mohinder uses his left hand to guide Sylar’s left hand from across his stomach downward, resting it against the front of his jeans overtop his straining hardness.

Mohinder presses Sylar’s hand down on his stiffening erection and creates an intense friction with the dense material of the jeans. Knowing what he would want for himself, Sylar instinctively begins massaging Mohinder through his pants. An escaped moan, one leading into another, from Mohinder tells Sylar he is doing it right and he touches his lips to the patch of skin at the base of Mohinder’s neck next to where his shirt starts. Parting his lips he tastes Mohinder’s skin, already wet and salty from the sheen of sweat starting to coat his body.

Pleasure rising through his body, Mohinder presses Sylar’s hand harder to encourage the steady rhythm. At the same time he pushes his ass back into Sylar’s groin, feeling Sylar’s own arousal against him. The pressure causes Sylar to groan and he bites down on Mohinder’s neck.

Swiftly Mohinder spins around and, grabbing the front of Sylar’s shirt, forces him backwards, tripping over his feet. Mohinder slams him forcefully into the bedroom wall, instantly positioning himself between Sylar’s legs, his eyes refusing to look anywhere but into Sylar’s.

Sylar grunts in satisfaction at the thud of the impact and sensation of their mutual erections rubbing against each other beneath far too constricting pants. His hands urgently try to pull Mohinder flat against his body but Mohinder insists on slowing down their action. He stares at Sylar in a way that makes him feel as if Mohinder is seeing every single detail, no matter how minute, that bends and pulses below his skin. Under Mohinder’s gaze he feels naked and vulnerable and completely wanted. There is no longer any question of that. He is overwhelmed by the extent of the want in Mohinder’s eyes and the very conscious acceptance of Sylar’s presence, body and mind.

Mohinder feels himself sinking into Sylar’s absorbing eyes, drawn into black irises, without resistance. Being here has become more important than what got them here. The past is broken down into categories: time, goals, motivations and feelings. In individual compartments it does not make sense but when all those separate elements are strung together their being here, with Sylar between him and the wall, holding onto each other with the belief that letting go will render it all an elaborate hoax by the universe that neither of them is willing to risk, is inarguably right.

In Sylar’s steady eyes Mohinder feels remarkable and unique. Something he has never experienced with anyone else, Mohinder feels as if Sylar sees something in him that even Mohinder is not aware of. Sylar’s desire for him, in all the ways that a person can be coveted, awes Mohinder’s normally modest or, more accurately, oblivious nature. The focused attention that Sylar lavishes on him forces Mohinder to truly see himself as someone worth loving, taking the time for.

Head tilted up, Mohinder draws out the lingering gaze. He feels Sylar’s anxiousness and sees the pink flush of skin but does not let it alter his course of action. Bringing his left hand to Sylar’s face he runs his fingers down the heated skin and across his lips, back and forth, following curves and lines from jaw to chin and down his neck.

Mohinder follows this with a soft wet kiss to the moist hollow point at the bottom of Sylar’s neck. Next he places a kiss just below Sylar’s left ear. As he journey’s his lips across to the other side of Sylar’s face Sylar tries to claim a kiss of his own, but Mohinder playfully avoids it, with an admonishing, “Uh-uh,” and places his lips on the right side of Sylar’s jaw.

“Damn it, Mohinder,” Sylar pants through gritted teeth. “Would you just—,”

Mohinder finishes the remark with a heated kiss that captures Sylar’s unprepared lips. Their tongues seek each other, gently massaging along their lengths, rolling around, and scraping across teeth.

Mohinder’s hands go to either side of Sylar’s head, fingers flitting through the ends of Sylar’s course hair just above his ears and down the back of his neck. Deepening the kiss, Mohinder grinds up against Sylar who wraps his arms around Mohinder, cupping his ass to pull him closer, as he thrusts forward. Mohinder matches the show of force by pushing back harder.

Sylar pulls out of the kiss and moans, “Professor, I had no idea you had it in you.”

Grinning, Mohinder takes a hold of his lips again then pulls back and replies, “You never asked—besides I thought you’d figure it out.”

Smiling Sylar says, “I’d say the delay was worth it.”

Their steady eyes hold firm and Mohinder finally says, “Definitely.”

Sylar shifts down the wall to bring himself to Mohinder’s height, his hands still on Mohinder’s ass holding their bodies together. What should come next is like a natural instinct that speaks for itself, the least of which is felt between them, restrained erections demanding release.

But there is something about Mohinder’s almost single-minded focus on the deliberate, deep, endless steady kisses that captivates Sylar. It is an intoxicating sensory stimulation enhanced by the drawn out gratification of experiencing every taste, smell, and touch in specific detail, rooted in the permanence of the person rather than the reactionary immediacy of lustful satiation.

What Mohinder lures him into is not just a kiss. Sylar realizes that with Mohinder there is no such thing. This alone could suffice. Even wanting more, this alone would do.

A knock at the front door freezes them in place with Mohinder pulling back to listen while trying to think about what to do. Sylar slams his head back against the wall and says with frustration, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Mohinder lets out a heavy sigh and directs calm eyes at Sylar. “We have plenty of time to finish this…or get it started as the case may be,” he says and detaches himself from Sylar’s body.

Only two steps away and Mohinder feels Sylar’s arm tug him back. Pushing himself up against Sylar, Mohinder grabs his face and frantically, desperately, kisses Sylar while Sylar moans insistent pleas, almost tearing Mohinder’s shirt in the process, the exhilarating opposite to everything from before.

Another knock and Mohinder breaks away for good and shouts, “Hold on, I’m coming,” while tossing a knowing smile over at Sylar who is watching him walk away with a dazed expression and a hint of laughter at the double-edged words.

Slowly approaching the door Mohinder has to take a moment to will his still hard erection away. Sylar, meanwhile, has made his way to the kitchen table and telekinetically retrieves two glasses, one from the cabinet and the other from the counter, and fills them with tap water before placing them on the table. Pulling out two chairs he sits in one, setting a scene that would look innocently like two people talking over a drink to any unsuspecting visitors.

Once ready, Mohinder places his hand on the doorknob and looks over his shoulder at Sylar. A shared nod that speaks of later, tomorrow and forever, that sees the string of past events and chooses to look forward at what lies ahead instead, that sees an ‘us’ now, flows between them.

Mohinder opens the door. 

   

**Author's Note:**

> Mylar Fic Awards  
> **Nominated for Best Romance**  
> **Nominated for Best Description of a Long Term Relationship, Realistic**


End file.
